Pablo Picasso, The Fall of Icarus, 1958, acrylic on 40 wood panels, 910 x 1060 cm, image: UNESCO/J.-C. Bernath via Walker Art Center
Loring calls them both “A motif of unknown origin” and “a crudely rendered Picasso-inspired trio,” seeing a similarity to the figure in Picasso’s 1958 UNESCO mural, The Fall of Icarus. I don’t see it, but sure. Except while other Picasso references appear in Johns’ work sooner, this so-called Icarus doesn’t turn up in Johns’ work until 1992, a full decade after the stick figure trio.
Ellsworth Kelly stamps, designed by Derry Noyes, issued in 2019 by the USPS
In 2019 the United States Postal Service really did put out a stamp named Gaza. It’s on the lower right, no. 5391, a 1956 four-canvas painting by Ellsworth Kelly in the collection of SFMOMA called Gaza.
SFMOMA’s page says more about the donors than the painting, and has the date as just 1956, while it has otherwise been dated 1952-56. The difference feels relevant, because it spans Kelly’s formative sojourn in Paris and his 1954 move to New York City.
It has turned out to be an enlightening pleasure to listen to the interviews with the recipients of this year’s Rabkin Foundation awards, and none moreso than the conversation with Emily Watlington.
With Mary Louise Schumacher, she talks about some of the nuances and challenges of writing about art and disability. They also talk about Watlington’s attuned sensibilities brought to bear on the Venice Biennale, which purported to bring attention and critical consideration to many historically marginalized artists. Watlington’s diaries and in-depth review reveals that it often did just the opposite.
While it is true that Jeff Koons website did suck, he did not need to go to the trouble of partnering with the sponsor of every podcast in the world, Squarespace, to make his new one. But here we are.
I have not clicked through, I have not downloaded the custom templates, I have not gotten to the end of the artnet sponcon article about the website refresh. I was stopped cold by the two sentences below, which are perfect in the way the mirror finish stainless steel puckers and creases on Koons’s own balloon animal sculptures are exactingly, terribly perfect:
“What this amounts to is organizing the entire Koons universe into a single domain. It is essentially a minimalist black-and-white world with sharp images that glide past pleasurably.”
Slice, 2020, oil on canvas, 50 x 66 1/8 in., promised gift to MoMA
Catching up on Sean Tatol’s always invigorating takes at The Manhattan Art Review, including his review of Jasper Johns’ drawings show at Matthew Marks. Which, like his previous show, includes variations on his 2020 painting, Slice, that got a lot of attention during his double retrospective.
And this line caught me off guard: “He’s apparently announced that Slice is his last painting, and as far as last works go I can’t imagine a more eloquent invocation of mortality and infinity.”
So before getting to the “Wait, what??” let’s cover the, “Yes, and”: Slice certainly is a helluva painting to end on. With themes Tatol observed, rich source images across the board, and a popping backstory that’ll keep people talking, it delivers on multiple planes at once.
2020 photo of then local boarding school student Jéan-Marc Togodgue with Slice (2020) in Johns’ studio, taken by his basketball coach, Jeff Ruskin [via]
And after its star turn in the Whitney/PMA show, Slice was made an anonymous promised gift to MoMA, where the credits for Johns’ reference images expanded in 2023 to include not just ACL doodler Jéan-Marc Togodgue and astrophysicist Margaret Geller, but all Geller’s scientific collaborators on the 32yo Slice of the Universe map she sent the artist unbidden.
Untitled, 2020, graphite, watercolor, and colored pencil on paper, 23¼ × 18¼ in. via Marks
But all that said, Wait what? I could neither imagine nor find any context in which Johns would have made such an announcement. So I asked Sean where he’d heard it. And he mentioned a post artist and editor Walter Robinson made last month to two social media platforms: “Jasper Johns (b 1930): ‘MoMA got my first work and MoMA got my last work. Now I’m done.’ A drawings survey opens at Marks on West 24th on Sept 12.”
When reached, Robinson did not say from whom he heard this, or when, but only clarified he didn’t hear it from Johns. Meanwhile, the sound of it is still ringing in my head. “Now I’m done.”
Untitled, 2019, Graphite on paper, six sheets, each: 8¼ × 6 in. via Matthew Marks
Did Johns decide that after finishing Slice? How’d that go down? How done is he? The newest drawings in the current Marks show date from 2021, the year of the anonymous gift. Is he done with making altogether? The show also includes older works that have never been seen. Has Johns moved to curating? Maybe he’s decided to focus on just revealing stuff now? Let’s start with those little guys, but there is a long list.
Richard Serra, F*** Helms, 1990, 14×15 in. sheet, via NGA/Gemini
Election season, when a man’s heart turns to thoughts of Gemini G.E.L. fundraising print portfolios. Or at least it used to.
Fortunately, longtime greg.org hero/reader Terry Wilfong emailed a keen observation about Richard Serra’s Afangar Viðey series prints that momentarily distracts from the genocidal, climate, and fascistic calamities afoot. Like me, Terry missed out on getting any little Viðey etchings, and was drawn to the print Serra made at the same moment for the Harvey Gantt Portfolio. [Gantt was the Black opponent to one of the Reagan era GOP’s biggest bigots, Senator Jesse Helms of North Carolina.]
Terry noted that this print, titled F*** Helms, looked similar to the Viðey etchings, but it was a screenprint. It was not an etching, yet it had an embossed plate mark like an etching. What was going on there?
Cannon is one of the creative suns like East Village photographer Alex Harsley who looped Hammons into their regularly orbit from the early 1990s. In the white artworld, Hammons developed a reputation of being aloof, reclusive, evasive But the truth is, he just had his own people he’d rather be in dialogue with, and Cannon has definitely been one of them.
But I was stunned to read Julia Halperin’s cover story about Cady Noland, which tracks the artist’s rise, her apparent withdrawal from the art world—and the rumors or sniping around it—and her recent return to exhibiting her work. Noland’s dedication to the precise positioning and presentation of her work is an ongoing theme, along with the power her work derives from attention some saw as excessive.
I was stunned even though I’m quoted in the article—as “a Noland obsessive,” which lmao is going straight on my bio—stunned because though she refused an interview, Noland agreed to respond to Halperin’s inquiries. The article is thus replete with parenthetical denials of rumors and clarifications of others’ statements, as if she’s carefully correcting the position of each element in her narrative.
Noland also provided the Times with previously unpublished Polaroids. And they confirmed that the artist has been involved in the new installation of her work opening at Glenstone in less than two weeks. Also that the Raleses did indeed buy out her entire show at Gagosian. What is a collector but an obsessive with ten billion dollars?
At first glance intarsia is strange medium for portraiture, for immediacy, or for conveying information at all. But that is looking at it through the wrong end of the chronoscope. In his current show at New Discretions, I Want Your Skull, Michael Bühler-Rose uses this permanent—or at least persistent—medium to transform temporal and subjective content into objects for history.
Michael Bühler-Rose, Verso (R.R., Erased de Kooning Drawing, 1958), 2024, Wood Intarsia/Inlay: Padauk, Kadyakshe Ebony, Slate Matti, Slate matti dark, Jackfruit Wood, Orange Fruit Wood, Rosewood and Mukurche woods, 33.25 x 28.8 x 1.5 in., via newdiscretions
The large, multi-panel studiolo scene is familiar, partly because it consciously evokes the intarsia room-as-portrait of the 15th century Studiolo Gubbio at the Met, but also because Bühler-Rose has lately shown similar studiolo selfies, with different configurations of autobiographical objects.
The other three works feel like they’re doing something different. The one that caught my eye on Instagram [I have not seen the show irl yet] is the museum sticker-covered verso of Rauschenberg’s Erased de Kooning Drawing. As someone who’s been enthralled by the underseen backs of famous artworks—including this one—this feels like using intarsia’s excessive intricacy to right a historical wrong.
Puzzle for F.G.T. and R.L (Paris, Last time, 1989), 2024, Wood Intarsia/Inlay: Slate Matti, Ebony, Rubber Wood and Mukurche woods, 12.5 x 15.75 x 1.5 in., via newdiscretions
The other two works are the verso of a small Dali painting, and the front of a Felix Gonzalez-Torres puzzle, complete with puzzle pieces and plastic bag. Besides their relatively small scale, the main connection I see here is that both the artworks referenced sold at Christie’s in mid-May 2024. So intarsia turns a moment in time into timeless objects.
But maybe I’m overly fixated on differences when one clear similarity is right. there. Because all four works in Bühler-Rose’s show are based on photographs. The studiolo is self-evidently a composed still life. The Rauschenberg’s verso photo is a key part of its art historical record. The Felix puzzle is itself a transformation of a snapshot into an object, whose photograph is transformed in turn. And Dali’s verso picture, cropped for its inlay version, only turned up because the painting came up for sale. So photography put through its theorized paces.
And unlike other any other printing—or production—techniques, these photos have been fixed in a form we know could last 500 years, because it already has.
[A few hours later update: Bühler-Rose’s unparalleled side hustle, https://boot.foundation, will be having a bootlegs and books popup at Situations this Sunday, October 6th, from 12-6. A reminder to always check insta before posting.]
OK, I have not listened to it myself, but I can already tell from the links included in their post that they left in the part where I cried.
Aaand maybe where I said I quietly boycotted the Hirshhorn while it was wrapped in that Nicholas Party scrim. Love you guys!
[AFTER HEARING IT UPDATE: I llol’d that the Rabkin folks actually used the Hirshhorn clip to announce the interview on their Instagram. Love it. And I forgot that while I did acknowledge my pettiness, I also point out, I’m not wrong. Overall though, I think my favorite quote will be, “Again, with the Manet.” It feels undeniably weird to say, “listen to me!” but it actually turned out OK.]
These Afangar Icelandic Series prints were the first Richard Serra prints I ever saw, and they left a deep impression. MoMA hung these rough, craggy prints off the lobby in late 1991, and they felt very much like prints about sculpture, which is something I’d never considered before. But I resolved to get some—which I’ve failed to do, not realizing that they’d sold out long before I knew they existed—and also to visit Afangar, the sculpture in Iceland they related to. Which only took four years.
Cotter talked about growing up free range in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and picked the Met for his workplace photo. Which after so many years at the Times, is probably the place he’s written about the most.
Cotter and Schumacher did not talk about his donation of the prize money to the the International Association of Art Critics and the Forge Project, to support emerging and Native American arts writing and fellowships, for which mad respect. [As ARTnews notes, the NY Times prohibits its full-time employees from accepting cash awards, and these days a full-time arts writing job is rarer than even the most generous awards.]
Front page of the 26 Nov 2016 edition of Die Welt, with pictures guest edited by Isa Genzken
The list of things I missed in mid-November 2016 continues to grow. The special issue of Die Welt edited by an artist that year was on 24 November, and the artist was Isa Genzken.
The paper that day only had five stories to use Genzken’s pictures on, and one of them was a feature on the artist herself. Notably, all Genzken’s roughly collaged pictures included photographs of herself, and one included her with her former teacher and husband, Gerhard Richter.
Front page of Gerhard Richter’s edition of Die Welt, 5 Oct 2012
For his Die Welt guest edit in October 2012, Richter included many travel-related snapshots, and few images of his artworks—among them pictures of his third student and wife Sabine Moritz.
screenshot of the Die Welt 2024 artist issue ad pitchdeck, showing the 14 previous artist issues
But this, I knew. The advertiser pitch deck for this year’s edition gave the whole rundown, most of which I also missed. From Baselitz, Rauch, Sherman and Schnabel to Koons, Wool, Murakami, Grosse and Kiefer, it’s enough to fill a private museum. The 2024 edition was two weeks ago. Tracey Emin, which I missed.
Maybe Genzken’s newspaper actually goes on a separate, shorter list of things I’m bummed I missed.
